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CHAPTER 1

A shleigh Woods had faced down a penalty shootout in the European Cup final, but nothing had prepared her for the challenge of walking in heels across the polished floors of Buckingham Palace. If she face-planted in front of Prince Michael when he was about to award her MBE, she might have to leave this planet and never return. Maybe life on Mars wouldn’t be so bad. Who knew what kind of football league they had? Maybe she could be a standout creative midfielder there, too. Captain of her country. One of the best on a whole new planet.

“Your Royal Highness,” she whispered under her breath for approximately the 37th time that morning. “I am deeply honoured. Or is it ‘I am most deeply honoured’?” She frowned. Her agent, Marianne, had been specific about which one sounded posher, but could Ash recall which one they’d landed on?

She could not.

Marianne had spent 20 minutes last night drilling her on protocol. “Don’t worry,” she’d told Ash as she shoved a pair of murder-weapon heels into her reluctant hands. “He’s easy- going. I’ve met him before at functions. Just don’t lean into the football angle. Apparently, he’s more of a rugby man.”

“I know zero about rugby, except that they pass the ball backwards, which is all sorts of weird.” Ash paused. “I shouldn’t ask about his recent bout of falling out of nightclubs in the early hours of the morning, either?”

“Please don’t,” Marianne had replied. “And for god’s sake, remember it's ‘Your Royal Highness’ the first time he addresses you, then it’s ‘Sir’. Under no circumstances should you switch to Mike or Mickey.”

“No Prince Mickey, got it.”

Ash had met Prime Minister Angela Fallon last month at a function, and accidentally called her Ange when she said goodbye. To her credit, the Prime Minister had simply laughed. Marianne and Ash’s mum had gone a deathly shade of green when she told them. It was one of Ash’s strengths but also a curse. She chatted to anybody. She cut to the chase, as her dad always pointed out. Apparently, she should steer clear of that with a prince.

“Your Royal Highness,” Ash muttered again as she carefully navigated the corridor. “I am most deeply honoured... then ‘Sir’... then something about it being a team game, steering clear of too much footy chat. Then shut up before I say anything ridiculous.”

Another aristocratic-looking woman glided past with enviable grace, shooting Ash a concerned look as she continued her whispered rehearsal. Ash wriggled her toes inside her heels and wished for the umpteenth time she’d worn flat shoes. However, both her stylist, Luke, and Marianne, had been insistent she wore heels. She’d joked she should have worn her lucky football boots, but they’d make far too much noise. Just imagining her studs click-clacking on the polished wooden floors made her smile.

Plus, like most ballers, Ash was superstitious. She only wore her lucky boots on a serious matchday. Sure, today was important, but it wasn’t as big as that day last year when she’d scored the winning goal in the European Cup final. The day football had come home. It was part of the reason she was here at Buckingham Palace, receiving this prestigious award.

She’d YouTubed previous MBE ceremonies obsessively: 30 seconds of walking, a brief chat, then a handshake from a (possibly balding) royal. Simple. Straightforward. She had it all planned out, right down to the acceptable number of seconds to hold eye contact. (Three to five, according to the internet, although Marianne said the upper end sounded a bit serial killer-ish.)

“Right this way, Ms Woods,” a uniformed attendant gestured, and Ash managed what she hoped was a dignified nod. The Palace corridor stretched before her, its walls lined with portraits of stern-faced monarchs whose eyes all seemed to follow her. Ash smiled back at them as if they had a hotline to her agent and might be taking notes. Wherever her excited parents were, she hoped they weren’t chewing the ears off the friends and family of the other honourees. Debra and Mark loved to chat about their daughter, captain of the England Women’s Football team. Ash secretly loved it, too.

“Your Royal Highness,” she whispered, practising one final time.

A throaty, arresting laugh echoed from around the corner, stopping Ash in her tracks. Whatever the joke, the recipient found it hilarious. She carried on walking, and through an open doorway ahead, she caught a glimpse of emerald-green silk, and dark hair that fell in waves past elegant shoulders, a profile that definitely didn’t belong to Prince Michael. A woman leaned against an ornate desk, head thrown back in genuine amusement at something someone had said.

Ash blinked. If she wasn’t mistaken, that was Princess Victoria. Heir to the throne. Also, women’s football fan.

She gulped. Princess Victoria had attended a couple of England games last year, but Ash hadn’t met her, having been sidelined with an MCL injury. Victoria hadn’t made it to the European Cup final in Sweden either, as she had to attend a world summit in a far-flung place. No matter, the King had turned up to shake hands and show support. Was Princess Victoria handing out the medals today instead of her brother? Was Ash finally going to meet the elusive princess?

If so, that was a whole different ballgame.

Ash was skilled at those.

She smoothed down the lapel on her Gucci black-and-white chequered suit and cleared her throat.

It was nearly time for kick-off.

Someone promptly shut the door to the room where Princess Victoria was, and Ash was shown upstairs to the Picture Gallery, which hummed with nervous energy. Again, she was surrounded by elite artworks and gilt-framed mirrors, their ornate frames catching the sunlight that streamed through the overhead skylights. Ash stood among clusters of other recipients, all of them trying very hard not to look out of place, which was sort of impossible. The only people who looked normal in these surroundings were royals. She sniffed the air. Somebody had flashed a can of Pledge nearby recently.

“Esteemed guests, can I have your attention please?” A uniformed attendant with an authoritative voice got the attention he desired.

“There’s been a slight change of plan this morning. Prince Michael is unable to attend the ceremony due to illness. Filling in for him is his sister, Princess Victoria, the Princess Royal. Twenty minutes until the ceremony begins. Please see Ruth on the left to double-check the running order. Many thanks, and this is a day to celebrate your achievements. Remember to smile.”

A frisson of excitement rushed around the room. This was an upgrade, everyone knew that. Princess Victoria was the future Queen, next in line to the throne. The tips of Ash’s ears tingled with warmth. She was about to meet Princess Victoria, who’d just been announced as the new patron of the Women’s Football Association. One thing was certain: Ash was going to have to up her chat game.

Ash’s best friend and England goalie Cam Holloway had a particular soft spot for Princess Victoria: “She’s got these deep-blue eyes you could very easily get lost in.” Ash was determined that wasn’t going to happen today. Even if her throat had gone that bit drier in the past few seconds since the news.

Where was Cam to bat some ideas around when she needed her? Let her know what Victoria liked and didn’t? Somewhere in the back of Ash’s mind, she seemed to recall Cam telling her the princess was a fan of cold-water swimming. However, to casually drop that into conversation while Victoria was pinning her MBE to her lapel would be a little weird.

Ash walked towards Ruth, a no-nonsense woman with a clipboard who Ash was sure had a range of sturdy waterproofs at home for the long hikes she took with her wife. Sure enough, when it was Ash’s turn to be name-checked, Ruth glanced up, then promptly blushed bright purple.

“You need to stand in the MBE group, to the right of the ante-chamber door. The door staff there will confirm your ceremony number and tell you when to walk out.” She leaned in. “Could I get a selfie with you when I’ve finished the checks?” Ruth glanced down at the floor before addressing Ash in a low whisper. “I’m a huge fan. Still buzzing about the Euros a year on!”

Ash grinned. Her gaydar never failed. She could spot a queer from 20 paces. It was a special skill of hers. “Of course.” She gestured to Ruth’s right. “I’ll stand here until you’re done.”

Five minutes later, she’d taken no less than seven selfies with other fans, which she was glad to do, because it took her mind off what was about to happen. She was about to be awarded an MBE. Ashleigh Woods, the girl from St Albans. She still couldn’t quite believe it.

She checked her phone: she had a message from her best mate and Lioness goalkeeper, Cam.

No falling over in front of Prince Michael. Falling at the feet of a man is a very bad look for a lesbian.

Change of plan, it’s Princess Victoria giving out the awards.

Cam was typing her return message almost before Ash had finished her own.

In that case, remember to be extra charming to our new FA Women’s Patron. And tell her hi from me.

Ash sent back a salute emoji, then grinned. Trust Cam to break her steadily building tension. She could always rely on her best friend for that. She’d been a particular rock last summer, after Ash’s break-up with her ex, Danielle, who’d cheated on her. When Danielle transferred to a new team, Ash had been grateful. However, when Danielle then plastered her new romance all over her socials, it had stung, making Ash feel like their three years together meant nothing.

The past year, she’d had to cope with Danielle’s new romance playing out to fevered online speculation about how she felt about it. She’d taken herself off her socials over the past few months, letting her PR team post whenever she had something to promote. Having lived a romance publicly, she was keen to do her next one in private. It made life a lot simpler.

Ash clicked to the Mail Online : they were speculating about Princess Victoria and her boyfriend, Dexter Matthews, who was seen ring shopping at the weekend. Could an engagement be on the cards? Ash made a mental note that it wasn’t appropriate to ask that question, either.

Instead, she leaned against the wall and googled ‘cold-water swimming’. She did ice baths for recovery, and that was bad enough. She couldn’t imagine doing it for fun. Where did princesses do it, though? Did Victoria have a special private pond? Just her and three bodyguards watching her dodgy front crawl?

Half an hour later, she was beckoned forward, and told to be ready in three minutes. Ash was used to pressured situations in front of large crowds, but somehow, this was worse. Maybe because she was on her own, without the backup of her teammates? Ash was very much a team player. Individual accolades for a team sport made her uncomfortable. But she wasn’t going to turn down an MBE.

The three minutes soon evaporated, and she stood on the precipice.

“Miss Ashleigh Woods, Member of the Most Excellent Order of the British Empire.”

The announcement rang clear through the Throne Room. Ash scanned the heads twisting to see her, then blocked out the crowd. Just as in a game, she had to focus on what was in front of her. Red patterned carpet. A distant gold throne, and a princess.

Twenty steps. That’s all it was. Twenty steps up to where the Princess Royal stood, sunlight from the tall windows catching the subtle gleam of her expensive necklace. Ash focused on keeping her pace steady, the way she did when taking a penalty: not too fast, not too slow. Around her, the ballroom held its breath, hundreds of eyes following her progress.

Seventeen steps. The Princess’s posture was perfect, of course, the green silk Ash had caught a glimpse of earlier encasing her body perfectly.

Thirteen steps. Their eyes met. The Princess’s were dark, intelligent, holding Ash’s gaze with startling directness.

The front of Ash’s shoe caught on something, but she corrected. Thank goodness for her core strength. If she fell, she would never hear the end of it.

Eleven steps. The princess’s lips curved slightly, not quite a smile, more like she’d noticed Ash’s momentary stumble and found it amusing.

Heat crept up Ash’s neck.

Nine steps. Focus, Woods. Just like Marianne said. Step, breathe, don’t trip.

But with each step closer, the air seemed to grow thicker. The princess’s gaze hadn’t wavered.

Seven steps. The princess shifted her weight slightly, and her fingers tightened around Ash’s medal.

Five steps. Ash was close enough now to see the precise arch of her dark eyebrows, the subtle perfume with a hint of musk, the way the princess’s throat moved as she swallowed.

Three steps. The princess’s composed expression flickered for just a moment, as something unreadable passed behind her eyes.

Two steps. Ash’s heart was doing the same thing it did before crucial matches, hammering against her ribs like it was trying to escape. She gritted her teeth, but then remembered to smile.

One step. Should she curtsy? Even the word made her cringe. She couldn’t curtsy. It went against every lesbian bone in her body. Instead, she briefly bowed her head, then looked up into the bluest eyes possible.

Cam was right. Ash could very much see herself drowning in them.

Princess Victoria held out a hand. The press of her fingers was warm, and her touch sent static through Ash’s bones. Her eyes widened, while the princess’s neutral expression softened into something more genuine, more surprised.

“Miss Woods.” Her voice was low, musical, the same as the throaty laugh from earlier. “Congratulations on your award, and it’s lovely to finally meet you in person. You’ve been absent when I visited the Lionesses. But I have to tell you, I watched your European Cup final performance and your penalty. Extraordinary composure under pressure. You’ve more than earned this award.”

Ash’s carefully memorised response evaporated. The princess hadn’t just said the usual congratulations followed by a stock line. She’d actually watched her play.

“Thank you, Your Highness.” Did she forget to say Royal? Shit. She winced, then stopped. It was okay. She hadn’t muttered the words Princess Vicky, and that was a win. As was the fact her voice remained steady, even though the princess’s intense gaze was almost like a physical touch. “Though meeting you is considerably more nerve-wracking.”

The princess’s smile reached her eyes. “No need to be nervous. You’ve done the hard bit by not falling over. All you have to do now is smile for your photographs.” Victoria leaned in and pinned the medal to the hook on Ash’s lapel with perfectly steady hands.

Their eyes met once more as Ash straightened, and for a moment, the vast ballroom with all its hundreds of witnesses seemed to fade away. Giddiness popped inside her like a fresh bottle of champagne.

“By the way, I love your outfit. It really suits you. Gucci?”

Ash nodded.

“You wear it well.”

Ash blinked, still processing the princess’s words as she gave her a small nod.

A dismissal.

Ash backed away the required three steps before turning.

She was still blinking, her mind a blank white slate as she sat down next to the woman who’d been before her. Beryl, who’d devoted her life to helping the homeless. A far greater feat than kicking a ball around a pitch for a few years. Beryl smiled at her, and touched her own medal.

Ash looked down at hers, and did the same. The princess’s fingers had just been on it, too.

She also wasn’t sure if she was going mad, but she could swear her gaydar went off in Princess Victoria’s presence. But even as the thought passed through her brain, she dismissed it. Ash was being ridiculous.

Princess Victoria had been in a long-term relationship with her boyfriend, Dexter Matthews, for years. Everybody knew that. She was the furthest from gay Ash could imagine. Posturing otherwise was just wishful thinking on her part.

Then again, her gaydar rarely malfunctioned.